


That New World Which Is the Old

by tabaqui



Category: Falling Skies, Supernatural
Genre: Crossover, Gen, Supernatural Summergen Fic Exchange
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-30
Updated: 2014-05-30
Packaged: 2018-01-27 15:02:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,908
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1714856
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tabaqui/pseuds/tabaqui
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A routine scouting job becomes something more as Tom Mason and his team unexpectedly come across the brothers Winchester.</p>
            </blockquote>





	That New World Which Is the Old

**Author's Note:**

> A fic for the 2013 spn_summergen challenge.
> 
> Title is from [The Day Dream](http://en.wikiquote.org/wiki/Alfred,_Lord_Tennyson#The_Day-Dream_.281842.29), by Alfred, Lord Tennyson. Beta by Darkhavens.

Purgatory had been pure. Pure hell, pure terror, pure adrenaline. Pure _killing_ , with no thought beyond surviving. Claw and scratch, scramble and scream. Benny at Dean's back like an iron bar, unyielding.

This new Earth…it's Purgatory all over again. Kick and bite, rip and tear. Survive. Sometimes, Dean forgets where he is. Not often, just…sometimes. Like now.

 

Someone – something – is making a noise like a wounded animal; a hoarse, keening wail that goes on and on, pausing for what seem to be choppy, hyperventilated gasps for air, before starting up that _noise_ again. Dean has to shake his head – drive his nails into his palm – just get himself out of that headspace, fast.

Sam's a step over, a step behind, gun up and ready, but his gaze on Dean and Dean gives him a quick, single jerk of his chin. _I'm fine, it's fine, let's go._

The clinic had looked good for some supplies. The whole neighborhood was mostly intact, still; trash and abandoned cars in the streets but most of the buildings standing. So they'd popped the lock on the fire exit and stepped inside, to dim white walls and scuffed linoleum and that _sound_.

Silently, Dean advances up the corridor, glancing left, then right, into empty examination rooms. In the third one, the paper cover on the table is torn and limp, a tattered shroud. The fourth door's nearly closed, just a sliver of light coming through. The noise stutters into a wet, tearing cough, and Dean puts the tip of his rifle on the door and gives it a light push.

It swings open slowly to reveal a battery-operated camp light illuminating lumps of backpacks, wads of cloth stained with blood, with vomit, with…other things. There's a stench like something dead, and then he sees bodies, and a face staring up at him, dirty and tear-streaked and thin and oh, fuck. Young. Just…too damn young.

Dean feels tension shiver out of him and he takes a half-step to the side, letting Sam get a look. Sam lets out a huff of air – disgust, dismay – and then he's moving past Dean, his rifle still in his hands but pointing up, harmless _looking_ if nothing else.

"Hey, hi, it's okay, we won't hurt you, it's okay, we can help, hey, shhh…." Dean sighs and unships his backpack, slinging his rifle onto his shoulder by the strap, already digging for supplies. 

In the end, they're left with one frail, hysterical kid and one body, and it's kind of Purgatory all over again.

 

"Are we there yet?" Hal shouts, and Tom grins, shooting his eldest his best 'dad' look. Hal just grins back, unrepentant, swerving his bike ever so slightly toward Tom's. Tom shakes his head and throttles down a little to take a sweeping curve, ever wary of there being a pile up, or debris, or, God help them, a mech on the other side. 

The road is clear, though, give or take the mess of a recent storm – downed limbs and drifts of slick leaves are everywhere; even a tangle of clothesline, a forlorn little row of rotting wooden pins still clinging gamely on. Tom swerves around them and catches sight of the first few buildings that help to make up the town of Blackstone. Just a little south and east is Fort Pickett, and maybe some restock. Ammo. Meds. Anything. MREs, even, though Matt had made the _yuck_ face to end all yuck-faces at the mention of them.

Once-stately homes – Victorians with arched windows and gingerbreading , renovated farm houses with wide, wrap-around porches – sit in tangles of late-autumn vine and bush run amok, the last gold and scarlet of dying leaves drifting over weathered wood. The road curves again, acquires a listing street light and then a traffic signal dangling by one frayed wire. Tom glances back over his shoulder, seeing Hal and Maggie side by side, and Anthony trailing behind, looking left and right in quick little snatches, probably getting more information in those quick glances than Tom ever will.

Three blocks on, Tom turns onto the main street, intending to stop and look around a little. He's thirsty and a little numb in the behind, and wants a chance for them all to stretch their legs and take a break before they hit Fort Pickett. If the skitters have left it intact, they might be using it for a base. They all need to be sharp.

As he steers around an abandoned SUV, movement catches his eye up ahead and he brakes, staring hard as two figures stride purposefully out from under a tattered awning, rifles held at the ready. Tom rolls to a stop, left foot hitting the pavement, and Hal, Maggie and Anthony coast up along side him. He watches as the men step out into the street and advance a few more feet until they, too, stop.

Too old to be harnessed, they don't look too desperate, either. Their jeans, boots and bulky jackets are worn but mostly clean, and even if their hair is in need of a wash and their knuckles are grimy, they don't have that hollow-cheeked gauntness of people on the ragged edge. They look – fit. And in complete control of the rifles they carry.

"We don't want any trouble!" the taller one calls out, and beside Tom, Hal snorts. 

"Could'a fooled me! You're not carryin' squirt guns!"

"Yeah, well, neither are you!" The other – older – man has a handgun strapped to his leg in a thigh holster and a look about him that makes Tom glance over at Anthony, eyebrows going up.

"You think military?" Tom murmurs, and Anthony shrugs.

"Could be. Got that look – military or police. They're not civilians – not even Chewie, there." 

Tom nods slowly, turning to look back at the men, standing up off the saddle of his bike a little. "We're from the 2nd Massachusetts! We're just scouting, not looking to recruit anybody, though you're welcome to join us."

The two men exchange glances, a moment of silent communication before the taller one takes another step forward and the other man sighs heavily. Then they're both advancing down the street, rifles held loosely across their bodies, stopping about twenty feet away.

"Scouts, huh?" The older one says, and Tom nods.

"Just making sure the way's clear."

"Or just going to check out the fort?" the taller one says, and Hal makes a little noise. 

"Heard there was an installation around here. We might take a look."

The older man huffs out a noise of irritation. "It's rubble. Fuckin' bugs got it ages ago – nothin' left."

"We'll be sure to take your word for it," Maggie says, and the older guy shoots her a slightly indulgent look, like he's giving a bone to a puppy.

"You can take it any way you like, sweetheart," he says, and Tom can all but feel the indignation rolling off Maggie. "Look, you wanna waste your time picking through that mess, that's up to you. We're just gonna be on our way, and I think you better do the same."

The taller one opens his mouth like he's going to object, eyebrows drawn down, but freezes. They all do, a moment of sudden panic as the tell-tale jet-engine noise of a beamer tears across the sky. "Under cover, _now_!" he barks, and they scatter; diving, rolling, hiding. 

A moment later, a beamer zips across the sky, east to west. From his huddle in the shadow of a listing pickup, Tom watches it rise and bank and turn. It cuts across the town again, a half-circle, banking on one foil of gossamer wing, and then it's gone, darting away, mechanical fly. 

Tom stands slowly, watching the distant shadow, and down the sidewalk he can see the two men standing, as well, the older one cursing, the taller one looking grim. Directly behind them, the glass door of a medical clinic shivers open, and small figure darts out and latches onto the older one's side.

"What happened?" Little girl's voice, high and shaky with fear. "Why'd you hide, Dean, is there monsters comin'?"

"Nothing happened, kiddo, it's okay. Just practicing." The man – Dean – looks up at Tom, his callused hands gentle on the child's back and head, letting her huddle in close. "Let's talk," he says.

 

"So what's your story?" Tom asks, sitting with Dean and Rylee in the waiting area of the clinic. Hal and Maggie are scouting the town, Anthony's up on the roof, keeping a look out. Dean's brother – Sam – is emptying what's left of the clinic's store room into a battered Army duffel. The clinic smells of mildew, and an underlying sick-sweet stench of rot that makes Tom want to sneeze – or gag.

Rylee's looking through a tattered copy of _Highlights_ , leaning on the arm of Dean's chair, legs curled under her. Her hair is twisted into two tails, uneven and fraying, in desperate need of a brushing. Dean glances over at her and then sighs, elbows propped on his knees and his hands hanging down loosely between. When he speaks his voice is low and measured, a little rough.

"Sam and me – we're scouting, too. Heard there was pretty hot action out here, thought we'd come take a look. We were checking for supplies and…we found Rylee and her brother. He broke his leg…it was pretty messed up. Went south on him." Dean stops, concentrating on his boots for a moment, and then looks up at Tom. 

"When we got here…he was already septic. Had a fever, gangrene…." Dean looks devastated, a transparency of emotion Tom didn't think he'd see in a guy like that. "Rylee was trying to get him to take some aspirin." He sits up, suddenly, taking a deep breath, his gaze tracking his brother for a moment, skimming over Rylee and back to Tom. "We buried him in a garden, couple streets over."

"It was real pretty," Rylee says. Her wide-eyed gaze is steady, her round, dark-skinned face is smoothly blank of emotion.. A glittery hair-clip is tangled in her hair over her left ear, and there is a half-healed scrape along her jaw. She's too thin – too quiet – and Tom feels a rush of exhausted pity.

"And then you all came along. What's the 2nd Mass doing in Virginia?"

Tom blinks away from Rylee – focuses on Dean. "We're going south. You're right, we had some heavy action further north, lost a lot of people. We heard there's a settlement in Charleston. Government, organization – maybe a real chance to turn the tide."

"Hot water, soft beds, all the candy you can eat?" Dean says, and he sounds a little amused and a lot scathing, and Tom looks at him in surprise.

"You know about it?"

"Amelia Earhart and her flying machine gave us that line, what…a month ago, Sam?" From his post at the reception desk, Sam gives an affirmative. "Yeah, so – I'm thinking aye, she's crazy, bee, she's a collaborator, or cee, the fucking Martians have turned Charleston into slag already."

"Or she's dee, none of the above," Sam says, a resigned look on his face, and Dean scoffs.

"You just keep telling yourself that, Sammy," Dean says, and Sam huffs.

"I guess any of those could be true," Tom says slowly. "But we're running on fumes out here. We have to try for something better. Something bigger. We've got civilians, kids…." Tom takes a deep breath, settling himself. "We just need to have hope that things can get better."

Dean's expression clearly says that hope is a fool's game, but Sam nods sympathetically. 

"It must be hard, so many civilians. How are you moving everybody?"

"Would you believe we walked?" Tom asks with a little grin, and Dean snorts. "Well, we started out on foot, mostly. Now we've got a pretty good convoy. We even have a medical van." He glances at Rylee, who's staring blankly at the magazine. "We have a school, too. I bet she'd like the other kids."

"Maybe," Dean says. He carefully lifts the magazine out of Rylee's hands and tosses it down. "Hey, little bit, how about some lunch? Sam's got SpaghettiO's."

"My momma said SpaghettiO's wasn't real food."

"Oh, great, your mom was a hippie," Dean says, and Sam pushes himself up out of his lean on the reception desk, dragging a pack along with him.

"C'mon, Rylee, I got some soup, too. You like vegetable beef?"

"Okay," Rylee says, and uncurls from the chair – walks over to Sam and fists her little hand in the hem of his flannel shirt. They walk toward the back of the clinic – probably an employee breakroom – Sam saying something about soup and crackers. Just as they turn the corner, there's a thumping outside and the door slams open, Anthony bolting in.

"We got company, guys – the beamer's back!"

 

It turns out it's more than the beamer – it's a trio of mechs and half a dozen skitters, too, breathlessly reported by Hal and Maggie, who come running in a scant handful of minutes after Anthony. The brothers are packing fast – seems they spent the night – and have everything loaded into a second duffel in a matter of minutes. Rylee has a dirty Wonder Woman backpack, and she stands against the wall, clutching it to her by one strap, her eyes huge in her thin face. 

"We've got transport out back. We're going to load up, and Sam's going to get Rylee and the car to the north end of town. Maggie's going with – he's gonna need backup." Dean snatches his rifle from its lean in the corner and shoulders it, crouches down and lifts Rylee in one smooth motion.

"Tom, you and Hal are gonna draw the bugs after you, four blocks over and two down-" 

"Hey, hey, hold on, man. Who put you in charge?" Hal snaps, and Tom puts his hand on his boy's shoulder.

"I put me in charge," Dean says. He turns, handing Rylee off to Sam, who easily takes her, burdened as he is with the duffels and a rifle, as well. "Me and Anthony are gonna be up on two roof tops over there – it's a narrow street, not much room and some debris. It'll slow the mechs down. Once they get there, we take 'em out."

"Easier said than done," Anthony says, and Hal shrugs Tom's hand off, bristling.

"And I say again, who put you-"

Dean takes one long stride into Hal's space, taller and broader and possessed of a deadly kind of calm that probably overlays a temper like a rocket. "There is _no_ time for top-dog pissing contests. I've got the plan, I've got the firepower – you do the math. You wanna live through this, or not?"

Hal glares back, but he's not saying anything, and Tom's not, either. The plan sounds solid; sounds like the brothers scouted the town as they came in, and there's no hesitation in what Dean's saying. Tom glances sideways at Anthony, at Maggie, and they both give him small, tight nods. Sam's already moving, down the corridor towards the back door. Maggie is snatching up her bag, shoving Anthony's into his waiting hand, and everything is go, go, go. 

"Let's do this," Tom says, and Dean shifts his gaze to Tom and nods, once. 

"All right. Tom, you ever fire an RPG before?"

 

Parked behind the clinic is a monster of a car – dusty, black and huge – and when Dean pops the trunk, Anthony makes a sound of delight. It's crammed with weapons, ammo – stuff Tom's never seen in person, and there they are: RPGs, bundled together with a bungee cord. Dean undoes the bungee while Sam gets Rylee and the duffels into the car.

"This is an RPG-7. Russian made, reloadable." Dean jerks open a box and grabs up a handful of the grenades – holds them out to Tom and Hal. "Two each. Here's the launcher, load like this – trigger here –" Thirty second brief, his explanation is concise and to the point, and Tom's estimation of Dean goes up a notch or two. Military for sure, probably a drill. 

Tom shoulders the RPG and shoves the grenade into the bag on his shoulder. Dean's handing Anthony his own launcher and hanging one off his shoulder, exchanging his rifle for a sniper rifle with a heavy-duty scope. Then he's digging back into the trunk for something else.

"We heard on the wire that ammo tipped with Martian metal would cut right through 'em." He runs a considering eye over their weapons before handing over two boxes of shells and then a loose handful to Maggie. "Me and Sam been making our own rounds for years, but it still takes time, so make your shots count." He lifts the sniper rifle on his shoulder a half inch. "I've got the bugs, you guys aim for the mechs, and that damn flyer if you get a shot." Dean slams the trunk shut, gives it a pat and looks over at his brother.

Sam is looking back, his expression tight but not panicked. 

"Watch yourself. No heroics."

"You know me, Sammy-"

"Yeah, I do. See you in thirty."

"You got it." Dean steps away as Sam gets inside and starts the engine with a rumbling roar that's sure to attract attention. "Anthony, hope that rice-burner of yours can carry two, I'm too fuckin' old for marathons. Maggie-" Maggie pauses in the doorway, and Dean shoots her a faint half-grin. "You look out for my brother, okay?"

"You got it," she says, and then she's gone, back through the clinic. The car rolls down the alley slowly, Rylee on her knees in the back seat, staring, and Dean gives her a little wave. 

"Time's wastin'," Dean says, and they go.

 

Tom's had time – over a year – to get used to the world the way it is, but some things you just never get used to. Like dodging through a deserted city street like some kind of crazy video game. Or that horrible, moaning wail of mechs on the move. 

Tom is running hard, bent low over the bike's tank, hoping to God the mechs don't get in a lucky shot. Hal did a great wobbly turn-and-stall, making himself look helpless and slow, and the whole party had given chase, skitters leaping and running like cockroaches, the mechs stamping heavily, beamfire hitting buildings and cars but not them. Not yet.

Up ahead is the turn – last one – into a side street that's half the size of the road they've been on. A delivery van is overturned about a quarter of a block up, and part of a building has come down right past that, making a bottleneck. Hal darts into the narrow gap just as Tom sees a blur of green off to the right – Anthony, showing his position for a brief moment before ducking down again. 

Tom hears the mechs crunch into the street behind them; hears the skitters, claws scraping over the van. He weaves and turns, slews his bike sideways and down, and is off and stumbling away, darting into a recessed doorway, fumbling the RPG up, digging out the grenade.

From above – opposite side, so Dean, not Anthony – comes the bark of the sniper rifle and one of the skitters goes down, head half gone.

Then an RPG round hisses overhead, straight into the closest mech, and suddenly everything is fire and smoke and debris, the cough of the RPGs and the _crack_ of Dean's rifle. Tom is jolted back by his own shot, his RPG going a little wide but doing damage all the same, the mech listing over only to be hit by a rapid rat-tat of bullets from Hal. Tom drops the RPG and unships his rifle – takes careful aim and snaps off one, two, three into the nearest mech, watching with satisfaction as it falters and sizzles and sparks.

The skitters are going down, _crack, crack, crack_ , and the mechs are taking out chunks of building and making craters in the street, but the whole field is too narrow – they can't maneuver and they can't turn around – and the smoke is acrid, black and harsh in Tom's nose and throat.

The beamer screams by overhead and a grenade catches it, clipping one wing and erupting into orange fire. The beamer jolts and flags and spins down, out of sight – impacting with a rumble and a roar and then it's quiet.

The mechs are down, the skitters are dead. Tom coughs once, hard, and steps slowly out of his niche. Hal is standing up from behind the twisted dumpster he'd used for cover, and overhead, Anthony leans out of a ragged window and whoops.

Tom's not sure they've ever had a firefight go that smoothly, and he looks up at Dean, who is climbing down a shuddering fire escape, and wonders what it would take to get him and his brother to stick with the 2nd Mass for a while. Or, to at least to leave some of those RPGs behind.

 

They catch up to Sam, Maggie and Rylee about a mile out of town. The big black car is tucked in behind a listing billboard, and Sam's up on the catwalk with an RPG. Maggie's on the other side of the road, halfway up a brushy hill, invisible until she stands. Hal waves, grinning, and Maggie skids and hops down to level ground, grinning back.

Dean climbs awkwardly off the back of Anthony's bike, making a little face and favoring his left knee, but a moment later he's striding over to the car and looking in, saying something to Rylee as Sam climbs down. 

"We saw the flyer go down," Sam says.

"Took 'em _all_ down," Anthony says, lifting the RPG off his shoulder and pointing it up into the sky. "Should'a seen it! Gotta get me some of these babies, that's for sure."

"They do seem to do the trick," Tom agrees. He can't help smiling as Maggie shoves playfully at Hal, who catches her and swings her in a half circle, both of them smiling. Anthony is over at the car, handing off his RPG to Dean and offering what's left of the ammo, but Dean waves it away. Tom goes to do the same.

When the trunk lid slams down, Dean tips his chin up at Tom, little 'come here' gesture, and Tom follows as Dean walks around to the front of the car. 

"Okay, so…you guys know what you're doing, and you seem like…nice enough people. Me and Sam, all we do is drive. Got a whole network of people and safe houses, mostly out west. We can't-" He looks away, then back at Tom, and Tom knows what he's going to ask, was trying to think of a way to say it, himself, without making anybody upset.

"We can't take Rylee with us."

"And you'd like her to come in with us. We've got the room for her, we'd be happy to have her."

"Yeah." Dean rubs at the back of his neck for a moment and then straightens up, settling his shoulders. "Okay. Good, that's…thanks, Tom." He's holding his hand out, and Tom takes it, feeling a strong grip and calluses, warm skin. 

"You're welcome. I'm glad you found her."

"Wish we'd found 'em sooner," Dean says, low. He looks over at his brother, who's close enough to have heard their conversation. Sam nods, and Dean sighs – stretches his neck just a little and waves his hand toward the road. "You guys are point."

"You got it," Tom says. They're mounted up and on the road in five minutes, turning north up the 460, the sun dipping down toward the western horizon. 

They link up with the 153 – turn off on another state highway, 615, and then another and another, a flurry of two-lane blacktops and little farmhouses drowning in weeds. They cross the Appomattox River at sunset, and Tom has a moment's pang of regret that they're too far east to see the old High Bridge, or the courthouse where Lee surrendered, ending the Civil War. 

The fields they drive through are full of ghosts, old and new, and the sky is the deep navy of twilight – the moon just a sliver of silver through the trees – as they find the 2nd Mass.

 

They've set up camp just south of Midlothian, in a cluster of houses and little shops. As they come up a small rise, Tom can see a pickup and a Jeep parked across the roadway, and what looks like some of Pope's Berserkers standing guard. They roll the Jeep back reluctantly, the bikes sliding through and then the brothers' big car rumbling up to the gap. It's narrow, but Dean doesn't hesitate, and people dart out of the way as it follows them to the command tent.

It's like a shark, Tom thinks – nobody wants to be in front of it, but everybody wants a look. As they drive up to the HQ, Weaver is coming out, ducking under the swagged canvas of the tent and standing stiffly, watching. The silence after the engines go quiet seems immense, and Tom swings off his bike, reaching out to put his hand on Hal's shoulder.

"Would you go find Anne, please? Tell her about Rylee?"

"Sure, Dad," Hal says, loping off into the lantern-studded dusk. Anthony is talking to Dai, his voice animated, and Maggie is waiting for Tom, joining him as he walks the few feet to the Captain. 

The car's doors creak and pop, Sam and Dean emerging. Dean still has the gun on his thigh, and Tom's pretty sure Sam's got one, too, tucked into his waistband or the coat, somewhere. Necessary arms that Tom wishes they could do without, even as the rifle he carries is as much a part of him, anymore, as the hair on his head.

"Tom. You've brought us guests."

"Captain. We met up down near the Fort. They helped us out of a little trouble."

The brothers walk over, Dean frowning ever so slightly, Sam looking as if he's doing his best to be friendly. They both seem on edge, and when a group of kids runs by, shouting, Tom sees them both jerk and flinch, eyes tracking the darting figures, hands moving toward weapons they don't pull.

Soldiers reflexes, soldier's nerves. They're all a little hair-triggered, these days.

"Boys, I'm Captain Dan Weaver, commander of the 2nd Mass." Weaver sticks out his hand, and after the barest hesitation, Dean takes it.

"Dean Winchester. This is my brother Sam."

"Pleased to meet you. Tom, here, says you helped him out?"

"Just a few bugs, Captain. All in a day's work." 

Tom can feel his eyebrows going up, and the look on Sam's face is one of resigned exasperation, but neither of them say anything. Weaver isn't quite buying it, though, and he makes a little 'after you' gesture, stepping aside from the entrance to the tent.

"I'd like to hear all about it. Nothin' better than a good story."

Dean's frown gets a little bit deeper, and he doesn't move. "Actually, Captain, we'd really like to just-"

"Dean!" The car door creaks open and Rylee spills out, half-tangled in a blanket and obviously just waking up. She blinks around her at the lights and the people, and it's easy to see she's confused and terrified. Dean spins on his heel and strides over to her, and she all but falls against him, clutching his jacket and letting the blanket go as Dean picks her up.

"We kind of have something we need to take care of first," Sam says, and Weaver nods.

"I guess you do. Tom-"

"Anne's on her way, Captain."

"Well, all right, then. I'll see you when you've finished up? Full report."

"Yes, sir," Tom says, and Weaver takes one more look at Dean and Rylee and goes back into the tent.

 

It takes a good five minutes of Dean talking to Rylee before the girl will allow Anne to take a look at her, but finally Dean comes down the stairs of the med-van and leans against its dusty side, letting out a long breath. He looks a little wrecked, and Tom gets up from where he was sitting on an overturned milk crate and walks over.

"Anne's amazing with kids, she'll be okay."

"I'm sure." Dean shoves his hand down into an inner pocket, rummages, and finally comes up with a pair of DumDum suckers. Green and blue, from what Tom can see. He holds them out to Tom. "Look – you just give these to her, okay? She can't come with us, and I don't like to make little kids cry. Much," he adds, sorry attempt at a joke, and Tom slowly shakes his head.

"You really think that's a good idea? She's been through some hard stuff-"

"And she shouldn't go through any more. She'll be okay. I mean, this is practically Paradise." Dean shoves the candy into Tom's breast pocket and steps away, looking around. He sees his brother, who's standing off to the side, talking to Lourdes. "Sam, let's move!"

Sam looks up, breaks off whatever he's saying to Lourdes and walks over. "You sure about this?"

"Yeah, I'm sure. It's better, and you know it."

"Listen, can you at least tell Captain Weaver about your operation?" Tom asks. "If you're hooked up with any of the resistance units in Utah or Chicago or Texas?"

"We're not with anybody," Sam says, and Dean startles a little as one of the Berserkers trots by, laughing raucously. "We know people – they're scattered from Wyoming to Kansas to California. We've got a shortwave set up, and we trade intel, and that's pretty much it." Sam looks around at the busy cluster of tents and vehicles and people; at fires and cooking food and groups of survivors who've made new families, new connections. He looks – wistful, almost. Tired. "Anything we find that's worth anything, we pass on, any big caches of supplies we find, we share it out."

"We could really use your skills. That was one of the smoothest ops I've been a part of. It's obvious you're both military-" Tom says, and stops, confused, when Dean snorts and Sam outright laughs.

"No, we're really not," Sam says, and Dean just shakes his head.

"You're not civilians."

"No, we weren't ever really that, either," Sam says, and Dean makes an impatient noise.

"It doesn't matter," Dean snaps. "We've got a job, and our job's out there, not lock-step with anybody's private army. No offense to your Captain Weaver, but we don't really do orders all that well."

"I understand," Tom says, even if he doesn't, really. Whatever drives these men, it's not any kind of hero complex or what might be called 'patriotic fervor'. It's something else – something all-consuming. Something that's made them both into the soldiers they so vehemently deny. "I'll tell Weaver-"

"Dad!"

It's Matt, running up and nearly bowling Tom over, and Tom hugs him tight for a moment, scrubbing his hand over Matt's hair. "Hey, buddy."

"I just saw Maggie and Hal, he said you were here. Did somebody get hurt?"

"Nope, nobody got hurt. We found somebody, though. Her names Rylee, and she's pretty scared. You think you could talk to her, when Anne's done? Tell her about school and stuff?"

"Sure, Dad." Matt looks up at Dean – _up_ at Sam. "Wow, you're tall!"

"Should've seen him when he was your age. Short and tubby," Dean says, and Sam shoots him pissed-off look.

"You're just jealous, shorty."

"At least I can get l-" Dean cuts himself off as Sam's elbow jabs him, and Tom has to smile at all three of them. 

"Go see if Anne's done, okay? These gentlemen have to go."

"Yeah, okay. Bye," Matt says, little wave, and Sam waves back. Dean just smirks. 

"Can we get on your network? If Charleston turns out to be everything she said…. There might be more people who want to join up. It might give them some hope."

Dean looks at Tom for a moment, then he shrugs – nods – and Sam digs into a pocket, coming up with a stub of a pencil and a ratty little notebook. 

"Okay, here's where you can find us. We broadcast every other night – we'll broadcast tomorrow night, about midnight. We cycle through these frequencies here-" Sam is scribbling numbers, times, code, and Tom watches him write – takes the paper when he's done, folding it into the same pocket as the DumDums. 

"When we get to Charleston…we'll let you know how it is."

"Yeah, okay." Sam puts his hand out, and Tom takes it. "Thanks for taking Rylee. She'll be okay here."

"There's no way we would have turned her away. Or you, either, if you ever change your mind."

"Thanks," Sam says, and he shoves his hands in his pockets. Dean glances around one more time, and gives Tom a long look. 

"Tell her… Well…tell her whatever works," Dean says, looking like he might want to say more – say something else.

"I'll tell her the men that rescued her had to go back out and find more people to rescue. I'll tell her that's your job, saving people."

Dean smiles, suddenly, heart-stoppingly wide, and bumps Sam's shoulder with his own. "Yeah, you tell her that. C'mon, Sammy, miles to go."

"I'll escort you out," Tom says. He stands there by the barricade as the car rumbles out of camp. Stands watching it go, the single tail-light like an ember, winking in and out and then vanishing, even as the throaty growl of the engine lingers. 

He wonders where they're going, and how many miles; wonders when they'll sleep. Then he turns around and heads for HQ, for Weaver; for his family, glad that his journey isn't theirs – that his miles are filled with his sons and Anne and a new life, maybe, just ahead. 

A new world.

 

"We could have stayed for a while," Sam says, quiet, because he can't _not_ , but he knows Dean doesn't want to hear it.

"Places to go, things to kill, Sammy. You know that," Dean replies, but he's staring straight ahead, fingers tight on the wheel. Sam just nods, leans into the corner of the door and gets comfortable, arms wrapped around himself, coat tucked tight over his chest.

"Convoy that size…they're just a moving target. Safer out here, on our own."

"Sure," Sam says. And he means it, because Dean's right, it _is_ safer out here on their own. Meeting up with other hunters occasionally but mostly just…staying under the radar. Less people means more things out there; some desperate, some just happy to come out of the shadows. 

"She'll be okay, though." 

"Yeah, yeah, sure, she'll be fine. I was talking to the doctor's assistant, Lourdes, she said the doc was really great, smart lady. Rylee'll be fine."

Dean nods, gaze never leaving the road, and Sam lets his head tip back, resting against the headrest. The familiar vibration and rumble of the engine goes through him, nothing but night sky and dark road ahead. Dean and his car, the road, the job. Even with aliens falling out of the sky everything feels just the same.

Just like home.


End file.
